


days

by NowWeOwnTheNight



Series: Haikyuu!! AUs [10]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 'various' is mentioned its just him fuckin around, Angst, Death, M/M, Mentions of Sex, implied thoughts of suicide, terminal illness, the iwaoi is main
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 14:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8919892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NowWeOwnTheNight/pseuds/NowWeOwnTheNight
Summary: He steps away from Kageyama, digs his hands into his black woolly sweater’s pockets, the big red circle on the back searing into his skin. The dumb tag always itches the nape of his neck, but he can’t possibly bring himself to cut it off.Machine gentle wash, do NOT tumble dry, it reads. Then, covering the little images beneath the instructions, in faded sharpie: Tooru #1.“One day…”“Iwaizumi…”“… Tell the boys I said ‘bye’, will you?”“Will do… You’re always welcome to join us, you know?”“I know.” He mutters back, turning on his heel and trundling away through the snow before Kageyama can see him cry.





	

**Author's Note:**

> yahooo   
> i got bad news about an old friend and had to angst a bit- this should have been done better but \o/ also, please note the tags

-•=•-•=•-

 

One day, a wind will blow and he won’t feel it.

He’ll take a few steps outside and sit in the grass and stare into space for the time it takes to send the sun from overhead to low in the hills. It’ll be oddly hot for spring, days before the matches. Only a matter of days, so it’s not like this news will be meaningful now.

Right?

It’s called a deformity of some sort- he didn’t care to listen to the doctor. A distortion, a growth, an _irregularity_. There should be operations done, more scans and more procedures to check, surgery to ensure his survival on an eighty-percent chance of killing him instantly.

_Irregularity. Give me a fucking break…_

All that _should_ be on his mind right now is the games coming up. Crushing his underclassman. Going to Nationals. Winning Nationals. The approaching exams. Graduating and getting in to university with-

_Hajime._

_How am I going to tell him?_

But _it shouldn’t matter, it shouldn’t matter right now_ , he has far greater things to think about. Not now, when this so-called _real life_ could come in and crush him. When his mother could cry and get him to do something to stop the clock and lick the fuse until his tongue is burnt, until his mouth is dust but the flame is gone.

Not now, when the doctor could change the generous ‘three years’ to a devastating ‘one month, at the most’.

Not now, when it’s too late to disappear in a big city and throw himself into a game, into the pleasure of someone else’s skin, into the dark of streets at night and running down their unaware households in unfamiliar suburbs.

 

Or, possibly, this is all one big coping mechanism.

All it took was a nasty spike to the face, a swearing on his life that he was ‘fine, of course I’m fine, Iwa-chan, I’m okay, just dizzy, just a bit nauseous’, a trip to hospital to scan for any issues. As if he could afford any risks, with the matches just around the corner.

And look what they found, embedded at the front of a perfectly happy- if a little morbidly neurotic -brain.

A beaming, joking, happy-go-lucky kid walks in, jesting freely with the doctors, a confident and equally as lively mother by his side.

And a husk comes back out with caged steps, white-out eyes, a life-changing- life ending –diagnosis, and a list of options; both medically proposed and otherwise.

 

-•=•-•=•-

 

A different day.

That’s definitely what this is.

Graduations are always a sad affair, although there’s an overwhelming air of victory and liberation. Hard speeches and whispered thanks, handshakes and huge hugs and tears shed in joy.

Triumph, relief… Then, why is this so hard?

Why must he make this such a big deal when, really, it’s only a few silly words, meaningless in the scheme of what’s ahead of him, all that’s headed his way?

Why should he care when, in the long run, this is going to hurt less?

He pulls Iwaizumi by the robe collar, drags his childhood friend aside, and shoves the complaining boy- with a too-large grin on his too-familiar face -against a tree.

“Shittykawa, what’s going on-”

“I… You’re going to Osaka, yes?”

“Yeah, _we’re_ going to Osaka. We talked about this, stupid, why are you-”

“I’m going to Chuo.”

“… Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh?”

“…”

“… _Oh_? _”_

“…”

“Hey… Oikawa?”

“…”

“… We haven’t even gotten our-”

“I’m going to Chuo, Iwa-ch-… Iwa- I’m-”

“Then I’ll apply to somewhere in Tokyo, there’s no-”

“No.”

A breeze. Only, this time he’s getting it full force, blowing him apart like a hurricane, splitting him in to pieces, fraying him from their memories, causing no pain on his departure.

But that’s in a perfect world, one he’s tried to keep Iwaizumi in for as long as he’s been able to. Now, this- _this_ is real life.

Staring him right in the face is what he’s going to be leaving behind.

_Closing a chapter? That sounds wrong…_

_This is so wrong._

_But I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want him to be there when…_

_I never want him to find out._

_I’ll kill myself before it happens, I swear, I swear on my life._

_I swear…_

“… The fuck do you mean _no-_ ”

“I… _I’m_ going to Tokyo.”

“And I’m coming with you, of course-”

“Iwa-”

“Oikawa, what the _fuck_ -”

“Iwaizumi.”

It may be the first day in thousands that he’s used that name.

_Please make it the last._

_Don’t make this any harder than it already is…_

“… Oi…”

“I’m going to Tokyo. And I don’t want you to come with me.”

There’s an audible snapping sound.

Mattsun had moved to step between them. Hopefully, it was just a twig.

“… I’m… I… _Tooru_ …”

_‘And I don’t want you to come with me.’_

_‘And I don’t want you with me.’_

_‘And I don’t want you.’_

_‘I don’t want you.’_

How can he possibly trick himself? The cracking of his heart is shriller than millions of branches bent and broken in gales. It digs deeper than any single sensation he’s experienced. It is a little like a broken vase, the shard-sharpness of heartbreak, and yet there is something else utterly emptying about it.

Tears, everywhere- on his red cheeks, in his eyelashes, down the turn of his chin, shining on his softened hands and the skin of his wrists where he rubs them over his face.

 

There’s a gust of air and Oikawa turns and walks away from a crying boy, his steps drawn-arrow even, his breath feather light, and his head lead heavy.

His eyes stay dry- the way they’ll remain for days and days to come. The arrow stays in its hold; tensed, awaiting its time to shoot out from beneath his feet.

And the iron ball-and-chain pulling his head underground will drag, and drag, and drag.

 

-•=•-•=•-

 

On a rainy day, there’s lightning. That hasn’t happened for a while.

Bolting upright in bed has blood flooding to his brain. For a second, he prays that he’s dying.

Woefully, after gazing around, he recognizes the walls as his own. A tiny flat in Higashinakano. Close to campus, closer to the stadium. Chuo is high-maintenance, but that’s nothing he can’t manage. There’s a strange, tidal pull between mental perilousness and staying determined- maybe out of spite, mostly out of hatred –that keeps him alive. He got a bite of it during his third year of high school. That’s all he can be bothered to attribute it to. School work, yes, nothing to do with the fucking time bomb in his head that sure as hell isn’t there to help him count the hours. No. Not at all. Who’s thinking about that? Definitely not Oikawa.

He clears the crust from the corners of his eyes. Checks his phone. Squints against the shine, labored breaths he drowns out with bass-boosted music, the windows creaking against the wind battering the building in the height of the storm.

_Wednesday. Four in the morning._

The day that the scouts are coming to see the team.

_A rainy day._

_It must be a good sign… Surely._

_Japan National Volleyball Team._

As terrifying of a concept that is, and as long as he’s looked towards this day for a majority of his life, it has paled and waned in the waves of the year-and-two-thirds just passed; he could name years, months, days, seconds, but that’d be acknowledging his obsessive side.

 

He doesn’t sleep until the flashes stop going off behind the blinds, outside in the street, blinding the world in tiny sparks that make huge sprays of white light.

 

-•=•-•=•-

 

This day, he wants to forget. He wants to forget ever coming here, every day he’s had like this, and every day like this he’s wished so hard to forget but never could.

_Forget, forget, forget…_

He lets another pair of hands run up and down his skin. Shoves another set of shoulders into a mattress. Let another persons stare in to his mind and feel their way into his soul.

Booming pop songs and bouncing mattresses. Four years deep in his degree- International Economics, who could give a shit -and two years in the team: only two years and he’s already striding for his spot on the court as a startup setter, his position as Captain at twenty-one.

 _His_ position _._ As though it’s a given, a right, where he _belongs_ \- as if he belongs _somewhere_ here on this rotten-luck world.

_Forget me, please, and let me forget…_

The air around him has changed, the same way the air he breathes has lost all significance. Sickening _competitiveness_ breaks the well-tensioned surface of charisma. Raw talent bubbles over the top of its putrid cauldron to overcome even the most developed of instincts; he learns how to both exploit and maximize geniuses, born players. Because _no one_ is a born winner. This, Oikawa knows first-hand. More importantly, _it_ \- his competitiveness -knows how to accommodate and entwine separate characters to form a flawless lineup, in any combination; competitiveness may be the wrong work he’s using, here.

_… Worthless pride._

_I’ll show you just how fucking worthless this kind of pride can be, especially when wasted on a man doomed for worthlessness._

_It is all or nothing- this could stop at any moment. From here on out, from every moment forward, there is no going back, and there is not regret. There is no holding back. Not now, and not until it all gives in and I can’t rely on this useless air alone._

_How is this worth anything when I couldn’t help it if I died tonight or tomorrow or the next day, huh?_

_There has to be something to prove, or else I’ve always been meant for nothing._

_But, that opens new doors._

_I’ve been meant for nothing… So, then, what has the point been in living?_

_And why haven’t I killed myself yet?_

_Why haven’t I just died, yet?_

_Why can’t I just do it, end it, and avoid what’s inevitably going to happen?_

_Because…_

_I have something to prove._

_… Worthless pride… Worthless pride. In every whisper of worthless wind, on every empty street corner, at every red light, at the end of each line of every song on the radio, bleeding in to my ears every night before I go to sleep…_

_Worthless pride…_

_How fucking dare you._

Although it’s _those_ huge hands grabbing his hips, the strength of an eagle and the strangled panic of a canon aimed dead at his chest, nothing stops him from using the larger man for some sort of comfort in the deathtrap of his own body.

Wakatoshi is hardly in a place to complain.

And neither was that lovely Sawamura-san.

[‘Oh, where’s your silver-haired beauty? Where’s Mr. Refreshing?’ ‘Hm, where’s your precious Ace?’ ‘Touché, Daichi-san, touché…’ was the extent of their first meeting, and the mutual cause for following rendezvous.]

And neither was that snake-eyed punk.

And neither was those two foreign guys visiting for an ice-skating competition.

And neither was the businessman with spikey black hair, who swung his arms too-little and held his shoulders just like Iwa-

_Forget, forget, forget…_

 

-•=•-•=•-

 

The day of their match.

Televised. It has become normal…

But it’s never been like this. _Never_ like this.

They’re out to win the world.

Nothing can stop them, tonight.

_Olympics._

_Tokyo._

Home court, home country, and they’re _winning_ this. There is no shred of doubt left in his mind, in his teammate’s resolves, in the crowd’s cheering.

 

It’s not till the last timeout for the game: oppositions call, probably in vain, ‘probably to prolong their failure’, as their libero puts it. Oikawa would exclaim, would curse Nishinoya and demand to know when he got so salty... But then he sees _him_ , and every thought _dies_ ; every word dries in his mouth. The earsplitting whistle doesn’t alarm him, hardly fazes him as he moves on auto-pilot to the backline for his serve.

He forgets where he is.

Colours fade and he’s seventeen again, and they’re taking their shirts off after training, the universe pinpointed to that moment, two horny teenagers alone in a school locker room, seeing each other as if they’re the only things that have ever mattered in all of time and space. He’s six again and crying at the foot of a tree, hands and knees scraped, the bandaids on old scabs torn, falling off- green skies and blue trees and a squeaky voice far above, asking if he didn’t die. He’s just turned eleven: there’s a dog on the street and they can’t leave it alone in the rain, taking it in and feeding it, returning it to the owner after the downpour moves on. He’s sitting alone on the night of his- their –first day of high school, wondering if they’re going to still be friends, if their promises will be made good and they’ll see the three years ahead through to the end, will go beyond that.

He’s eighteen, again, stuck in a horror movie where he can’t stop his feet, he can’t turn back and fall in to Iwaizumi’s arms and beg him to stay by his side for as long as he’s going to live- as short a time as it’s going to be.

Yes, there he is. Standing out from the crowd, down the front on the opposite side of the net at the fourth set.

_He started on my side._

_He started on our side of the court._

_You’ve always been on my side, isn’t that right?_

_… Then where the fuck have you been?_

_Do I even have a right to blame you, when I’m the one that tore us apart? When I cut you off… But you didn’t follow, did you…_

_It is a serious dilemma._

_Who’s at fault? Is there even a change to commiserate… And if so, would you ever want to take it? Would I… Could I…_

_No…_

_I hope to God we don’t talk after the game._

_Don’t change my mind- I do this, I am seen and avenged and know, and then I’m gone. That’s how it’s going to be._

_That’s how it’s planned. And just after my birthday, how perfect…_

_After the party, after the ceremonies…_

_I’ll go home, and…_

The next time he leaps in to place to set, he can’t see through the tears clouding his vision. A dump is easy enough to pull off when Ushijima is sprinting down one side of the court- the commentator roaring, enticing the crowd -and all eyes are on his massive frame, his powerful jump, and the slamming hand through thin air.

Thin air, thinning air, the final buzzer sets the arena aflame and launches him in to space and then some, so far away, suspends his joints in zero-gravity and chills him to the core all the way off the field, to the side-lines, to the podium, through the walk-around, and then in the direction of the locker rooms.

 

He drops like a stone right in the doorway of the home lockers, at the back of his team. Iwaizumi is at his side miles before the paramedics.

 

-•=•-•=•-

 

Some day, maybe far into the future, or maybe tomorrow, or in a few days time, he’s going to stop doing it.

He’ll stop avoiding everyone’s eyes, their touches. Their words and embraces, because one day, they too will be cold and dead and in the ground and far, far out of reach.

The wind has been ignoring him, blowing past him, hardly having the nerve to touch him and ruffle his hair and batter his black tie around. Ever since the last day of the Olympic matches- now a year and a half passed, exactly to this day.

But, today, it beats against his icy cheeks with splinters of snow and ice, blanketing the grass and bleeding out the sky-blue of the flowers in his hand. It comes down and _down_ in flurries to hide the scene, the gravesite with one new addition, the boy kneeling before it and the two standing some way behind- and, further on, a huddle of students awaiting their return in somber silence.

“It’s nice, dude,” Hanamaki speaks softly on their way out, “The flowers…”

“Yeah… He would’ve liked them.” The air hurts to breathe, coldness having nothing to do with the sharpness of Iwaizumi’s heart, shredding his lungs where they touch it to get enough breath in. “Years ago… He… He would have liked them, I think…”

_… Oikawa would’ve laughed at the flowers- but as soon as we were alone, he would’ve taken time to admire them, smell them, put them in water and sit them in the window…_

“Days ago, too.” Matsukawa adds, not too quickly, but after enough of a pause to let his friend have some peace.

“… So, there’s that new ramen house?” Watari suggests, and Iwaizumi glares at their backs as they turn away, chattering softly; the way Kyotani’s hand clutches in Yahaba’s, Makki’s arm around Mattsun’s waist, Kindaichi’s head resting carefully against Kunimi’s as they walk.

“You coming with us, Iwaizumi?” Asks Kageyama, unobtrusive and ghostlike behind him, a world of quiet without the red-head who’s too close to home for Iwaizumi to deal with.

Hinata’s fighting by Ushijima’s side now, just as Oikawa had. Even after hating the man for so long.

_The stubborn bastard…_

Iwaizumi thinks… _If it had been Karasuno’s Ten- Japan’s Ten, now –instead of Oikawa, would Kageyama be in the same state I’m in now? Wouldn’t Hinata tell him about his condition? Wouldn’t he reach out for help, see more sense in his life than he does in his pride? Would he lie and run away and close himself off to Kageyama, forcing a grey pit, a rift between them? Or was that just Oikawa, with his misguided sense of protection? His painful passion for superiority that he carried everywhere in life, his dirtied personality buried under layers of charisma and fake charm and stupidly all-encompassing competitiveness…_

His eyes begin to burn and water.

_… Oikawa wouldn’t have let me- he wouldn’t let me cry. He always tried his best to keep me in good spirits._

_Oikawa wouldn’t have told me he was dying, even if it meant having to push me away._

_How sad must you be… To lie… To force on to another person endless worry and insecurity- to know how it’s going to end, and do it anyway-_

“… Iwaizumi? You okay-” Kageyama breaks off into a wheezing bout of coughs. His chest never did great in cold weather.

_… Oikawa would have laughed at him. Maybe even thrown some snow in his face._

“One day, yeah.” Iwaizumi breathes, reaching high to mess up Kageyama’s hair and straightening the boy’s Japan jersey’s collar, forcing a feeble smile to his lips. He steps away from Kageyama, digs his hands into his black woolly sweater’s pockets, the big red circle on the back searing into his skin. The dumb tag always itches the nape of his neck, but he can’t possibly bring himself to cut it off.

 ** _Machine gentle wash, do NOT tumble dry_** , it reads. Then, covering the little images beneath the instructions, in faded sharpie: **_Tooru #1_**.

“One day…”

“Iwaizumi…”

“… Tell the boys I said ‘bye’, will you?”

“Will do… You’re always welcome to join us, you know?”

“I know.” He mutters back, turning on his heel and trundling away through the snow before Kageyama can see him cry.

 

-•=•-•=•-

 

\- I.H…

[I don’t think you should use this one]

[k]

**Author's Note:**

> if u got this far, thanks for readin it \o/


End file.
